For the past decade or so, whether Chanukah falls in early
December or overlaps Christmas, I have wrestled with the meaning of the
holiday. I grew up in a devoutly secular Jewish family, although my father used
to tell us stories of the holidays. It wasn’t until I had children of my own
that observing Jewish customs became important to me. Their father, my first
husband, came from a family that celebrated Christmas as a paean to
overconsumption, an amalgam of showering each other with cheap gifts and
gorging on indigestible food while sniping at one another. In our own home,
however, we would have a modest tree, a modest meal, and presents that had
something to do with the interests of the recipients.

As the kids grew up, and I divorced and later remarried, I
found myself re-evaluating the holiday. I hadn’t celebrated it as a child and I
no longer had children to delight. By this time, my own Jewish identity had
become increasingly important to me. What did this holiday mean, beyond a way
of enjoying the winter in a non-specifically-Christian way?
I started reading the story behind Chanukah, and that’s when
my troubles started.